Sweet Savage Surrender (3 page)

"My men...!" he said aloud.  As if somehow understanding his question, one of the braves pointed to an area lit by firelight.  There, lying in a heap were his blue-coated  soldiers. 
Dear God, he’d never meant for it to end this way. Stevens, LaMoine, Bently. So young to have died so
violently
. Good men, all. Dear God, why? And wh
y then had he been kept
alive?  He could only wonder.

Once again the Indians gave vent to their chattering.  How he wished he knew what they were saying.  They were pointing at him, gro
wling like animals
.  Stomping their feet, jeering at him, they seemed to be offering insults.  They showed extreme interest in his hat as if somehow they knew he was the leader of the group.  Therein lay the reason he'd not been murdered
, he realized
.

A sudden twist of the wood thrust through the knots holding his wrists made him cry out.  Over and over again they twisted the knot, cutting off his circulation.  Soon his wrists were  numb and blue with bruises.   Whooping and dancing around him they br
andished their knives and made
obvious
their intentions
.

"Dear God, give me strength!"  he called out.  
The horror of it all swept through him as he
realized
what his fate was to be. 
They
were going to torture him
to death
.
             

Chapter Three

The early morning sun hovered in the sky like a ball of fire.  As she lifted the flap of the tepee to gaze outside, Skyraven squinted at the glare.  At last the living lodges had been constructed, comfortable tepees of buffalo skin sewn together and draped around sturdy pine poles.  The flaps of the dwellings always faced the sunrise so that the rising sun was the first thing the eyes encou
ntered when leaving the lodge.

Although it was still early in the morning the entire camp was ablaze with activity.  Several men were galloping through the village astride their horses, in a hurry to be on their way to scout for buffalo herds and to return before nightfall.  Everyone except the small children and babies had some kind of work to complete before the evening came and
the ceremonies could begin. 

Skyraven walked toward the river with ceremonial  robes to be washed and dried before the day turned to night.  As she made her way through the camp
,
a group of young children playing throw-the-hoop called out a greeting to her.  Her attention was
momentarily
diverted and she did not have the chance to acknowledge  Lone Wolf's hand raised in greeting. 
He was
tying a quiver of arrows around his war pony's neck
in preparation for the mock battle to be fought later in the day,
but  he stopped for a moment to look longingly in her dire
ction.  The
look did not go unnoticed by Whispering Wind.  That scowling Indian girl had been preparing pemmican from strips of buffalo meat mixed with fat marrow and chokecherry paste
,
but she quickly  put
aside
the gut casings she was
filling
with the mixture aside and hurried to Lone Wolf's side.  Her eyes blazed  possessively as she brushed his arm.  She was disappointed that Skyraven continued on to the river's edge to commence her washing without taking notice of
her rival's supposed victory.

The water was cold but Skyraven ignored the discomfort as she submerged her hands in the river, concentrating her attention on her grandfather's shirt.  Soaking it and pounding it with a bone mallet
,
she soon had it clean and paused in her labor.  It was a magical morning made for daydreamin
g. She could take her time
laying the garments out
in the hot sun which would dry
them quickly.  Indeed
,
the sun  danced and sparkled upon the surface of the water
,
and she splashed some of the refreshing moisture on her face only to be startled as she peered into the rivers depth.   She could see the same image she had seen in her dreams the last two nights but shook her head tryi
ng to chase the vision away. 

"No...no."  She stared into the blue depths for a long time, completely mesmerized by the vision that met her eyes.  "I do not want to see,"  she mumbled softly,  speaking to the images  in the water.  To her mortification the images seemed to talk back, issuing her a warning.  Like one gone mad she talked back to the  voices, trying to push them away.  "Leave me!"  Instead of
obeying
,
the images hovered before her eyes and she w
as immersed in a living dream.

Her soft doe skin dress was wet with perspiration,  her dark hair tangled around  her face like a thick rope when at last she jumped up
with a start.
.   Her blue eyes  were wide with fright at that which she could not fully understand. 
She looked around, r
aising a shaking hand to her mouth in a effort to
calm her fear
.  There was no one  nearby.  She was all alone.  She must have imagined the voices.   And
yet it had all seemed so real.

She had seen a golden haired white man surrounded by Indians.  It was as if the
Great Spirit
had called upon her to aid him in freeing the man
,
just as he had in her dreams. It had been so real that she had fully
excepted
to find someone lurking within the deep blue waters.  Just to make certain there was not, she frantically  slapped at the water, sending it into frenzied waves
,
then   rose to her feet.  She had to find her gra
ndfather.

On trembling legs she walked to the entrance of the lodge. "Grandfather!"  Lifting up the flap she scanned the room.  On the southern side
,
with its head west
,
was her grandfather's bed.  Above th
e
bed were pictures painted, of things he'd seen and done during his lifetime.  Near the bed were
several buffalo robes to sit upo
n during the day or for warmth at night
,
but he
r grandfather was not within.

Skyraven's eyes  were drawn to the glowing embers of the fire.  Always a fire burned in the center of the tepee just as a fire continuously burned in the middle of the camp.  She sniffed the air and could smell the scent of the meat and wild vegetables which had simmered over the hot flagstones in iron pots all  night long
--w
hiteman's cookery that the squaws used sometimes.  It reminded her that she had not yet eaten, but strangely now she was not hungry.  Fear and apprehensio
n had wiped her appetite away.

Foolish woman she thought.  Like a child she had run to her grandfather's arms
,
but all seemed peaceful.  Still she felt uneasy, as if she could still
feel the presence of danger--d
anger not to herself but to the white man  who had appeared in the water.  She had to question her grandfather about the matter.  Was it possible that she had inherited his
ability
to see the future?  Was this how he felt when he gave himself
up to his visions, his chants?

Wandering about the camp as if in a trance,  she tried to put some meaning into her vision.  A man with hair as pale gold as the spring corn had been surrounded by a ring of warriors not of her tribe.  She shuddered as she contemplated the man's fate.  But what had he to do with her?  Why had she seen herself  there also?  It was  a thing
she could not help but wonder.

This was the fourth day of the eight days of ceremonial activity.  Already the young warriors had begun the mock battle.  As usual
,
Lone Wolf was the boldest of the braves.  Like a fluttering sparrow
,
Whispering Wind was as close to the edge of the doings as she was allowed.  Twittering, swaying her hips whenever she walked about
,
she tried to draw his notice, but Skyraven didn't care.  In some w
ays they deserved each other for b
oth were  exceedingly vain.

"Skyraven....."  Her grandfather summoned her .  A look of mild irritation clouded his wrinkled face.  As she came near him he held out his hand.  "The leather pouch of herbs was torn during our journey.  I did not discover it until just now.  I have no wild sa
ge for the ceremony tonight."

"I know a place not far from here where it grows thickly.  I have gathered it there before.  I'll go
,
but it will take me some time to get there and back."  Looking up at the sky she calculated that she would have plenty of time.  The ceremony would not begin until sundown.   The crier would ride through the village, stopping at each of the one hundred and fifty lodges to call the people to assemble for the dance ceremony and give thanks to Man Above for a safe journey, but not until it was dark.  This day had just begun.  "I will ride like the wind and be back before the sun is high overhead
," Skyraven promised.

Her reply brought a smile to her grandfather's lips.  "And so you shall b
e.  I can always depend on you G
randdaughter."  He patted her on the
shoulder
turned and left  before she had a chance to mention her vision. She had wanted to ask him about what it could have meant
,
but  now he had his own worries  so she did not follow after him.  Perhaps time alone with her thoughts was what she needed.  A horseback
ride always cleared her head.,

Putting her two fingers into her mouth, Skyraven made the shrill sound that always brought her painted mare to her.  The large animal was beautiful and gentle, yet as fast as the wind.  That was the reason  Skyravern had named her Running
Antelope
.  As  the
mare
approached
, Skyraven patted her head, then sprang upon the horse'
s back with expert nimbleness.

Tossing her  head fretfully, the mare nickered in greeting, showing her eagerness to run.  Skyraven let the animal have her way and breathed in excitement as horse and rider became o
ne with the racing wind.  T
he teepees of the camp
soon
looked like hug
e pine cones in the distance.

Onward they galloped, past the creek bed, beyond the steep incline.  She thrilled at the feeling of freedom she always experienced when the whole countryside was open to her.  It was as if all her troubles and worries vanished in that moment.  Her
disturbing
dream  and all her fears were swept away as the horse responded to her owner's soft whisper and light touch on her mane.  When they finally came to the edge of the clearing, Skyraven slid from the horse and busied herself with gathering the
plentiful
wild herbs
, including
sage but red
root and milk weed
. 
Soon the pouches were filled, but o
ff and on as she worked she was assailed by unsettling
feelings
of impending
danger.  She tried to ignore the voice that called her but a power seeme
d to be urging  her onward.

Once again she
mounted
Running
Antelope’s
,
intending to return to the village
,
but  the mare
seemed to be leading her farther
into unfamiliar country.  Was it magic that pulled at her or her own inner thinking?  Her grandfather had asked her over and over again if she ever saw visions
,
as if he expected that she should.  Now she could tell him that she had.  The gift seem
ed to be working for her also.

Running
Antelope
stopped abruptly and raised her head, her nostrils flaring.  Smoke. Skyraven could smell the faint pungent odor of buffalo chips in the distance and strained her ears and eyes.  Were her senses  deceiving her or could she hear the distant sound of chanting being carried in the wind?  Carefully she slid from Running
Antelope’s
back and tethered her to a tree near the tall grass where they would both be well hidde
n from view. Skyraven crept for
ward on her hands and knees for quite a distance
,
then
lay
down on her stomach and carefully parted the tall grass. As she gazed through the thick cover, the sight before her caused her stomach to churn and her legs to tremble.  The image again had returned to haunt her.  She made an effort to hide her fear  but all thoug
ht evaporated into thin air.

Skyraven's throat became constricted.  She was almost afraid to breathe.   Then she realized that the sight before her was
real
.  It was not imagined or just a vision.  Even from this
distance
she could see him, the man in her vision. He was tall and strong in appearance, as powerfully built as any warrior.  A group of eight brightly painted warriors stood in a
menacing
semi
circle around the light haired
white man.
Utes!  Like the Pawnees, they were enemies of her tribe .  Oh how she hated them
, she thought
.

Cautiously she moved forward for a better look.   The Indians were stripping the clothing from the whiteman's body while making gestures and talking in grunts she could not understand. The whiteman was nearly naked, wearing only the strange undergarments the white men were said to wear.  They looked much to her eyes like red leggin
g
s.  Skyraven could not help but stare.  His shoulders were wide, his legs long.  His body glistened with perspiration
,
emphasizing the beauty of his body.  In truth
,
the whiteman was a fine speciman of manhood.  She doubted he had succumbed easily to his captors. No wonder there were so many of them, she thought with scorn.  It would have taken more than one squatty Ute warrior to  subdue
him
.  Oh, he was handsome for a whiteman
,
but it was his hair that drew her eye.  Catching all the rays of the sun it looked golden, like corn silk or flax. Oh how she would hate to see those beautiful yellow waves adorning a Ute's belt!

It is none of your concern, woman
, she chided to herself and yet something about the white
man drew her.   His head drooped to one side, his eyes were closed
,
and for just a moment she could nearly feel his pain. Was there anything she could do?  She attuned her ears to the sounds floating around her. She could hear more voices and chants far away.  There must be more of them than she thought.  She didn't dare to look.  Not now.  All of her teachings came to her aid as she willed herself to remain stiff a
nd still as a stone, watching.